Heartless: A Small Town Single Dad Romance(34)

Her lean fingers move across the string seamlessly, stretching and flexing with every note she strums.

And then her voice kicks in, and it’s a shot to the gut.

Raspy and sweet, all at once.

Shy and sure.

Quiet and strong. Just like her.

The first line is something about strawberries and summer evenings, which is fitting, because her strawberry red lips move, and I’m entranced.

Luke sways to the song, happy and oblivious. But not me. I can feel my precious control slipping where she’s concerned. And who knew some stupid song would be the thing to do it?

She peeks up and her voice breaks ever so slightly when she catches me staring her down.

She doesn’t look away though.

The lyrics talk about breathing in and breathing out—which is a great reminder for me at this current juncture.

My stomach bottoms out, and I worry about what’s written on my face. My carefully practiced poker face is slipping, like she’s peeling it back, piece by piece. All the armor, all the protection.

I’m not ready to be laid bare. Not by her. Not by anyone.

Luke’s mom may not have been the right woman for me, but she was a woman for me. And I did my best to keep her happy. I tried to love her. And in my own way, I did. It wasn’t cinematic but I was faithful. I provided for her. I worked myself to the bone to build us a good life.

And she left.

It wasn’t enough. Even today, I don’t have much more than I did then.

And at the end of August, Willa will leave too. Back to her city existence. Back to bars and famous musicians. Back to an exciting life that doesn’t include a moody rancher with a chip on his shoulder.

Maybe it would be fine. Maybe I could let her go and move on.

Luke will be sad either way. But he’ll be devastated if I let him think there’s more here than a seasonal arrangement. And his heart isn’t one I’m willing to gamble.

So, I turn my back on her and get back to peeling potatoes.

I listen to every note, hang on every word, and feel grateful that she can’t see my face as I do.

“Again! Again!” Luke exclaims, and I just shake my head. I won’t say no because I’m enjoying it way too much to stop her.

“How about another song?” she asks him.

“What song?”

“A song your dad will know.”

“He doesn’t know any good music,” Luke provides very matter-of-factly.

My shoulders shake as I laugh silently. “It’s true,” I call over my shoulder.

“He’s too old!”

I turn and narrow my eyes at him jokingly.

“He’ll know this one then.” Willa’s fingers strum a few chords, and I instantly know the song.

I turn my fake dirty look on her, and she grins back. Who doesn’t know “Dust on the Bottle”? It’s a classic.

Her voice is thick with amusement, her posture straighter when I smile at her. She lights up when I laugh.

She sings about dust on a bottle and how the contents just keep getting better with age. It’s funny,

she’s poking fun at me and she knows it. The night flows from there. Conversation, jokes, good food.

And after that song Luke has resorted to teasing Willa and me about being old. He’s dubbed us

“Grandma” and “Grandpa.”

“Pass the mashed potatoes please, Grandma.” He dissolves into a fit of giggles, the golden evening rays glinting off of his dark, shiny hair, cheeks rosy from summer days spent in the sun.

I feel alarmingly . . . at ease.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?” Willa picks up an unevenly cut piece of cucumber and pops it into her mouth. “A total weirdo.”

Weirdo is Luke’s favorite joke insult right now, and he laughs so hard that he gasps for air. Willa laughs too, looking at him with so much affection that my heart twists in my chest.

“No, Willa! You’re a weirdo! I’ve seen you dance. You’re the biggest weirdo in the world!”

Her hand falls across her chest, and she leans back dramatically. “How dare you, Luke Eaton.

That’s just cruel. I dance beautifully.”

“Show my dad! Show my dad how weird you dance!” Amused tears glisten in the corners of his eyes, and he wipes at them with pudgy little fingers.

“Okay, fine. He can be the judge. Got that, Cade? Luke and I are going to dance, and you’ll decide which of us is the bigger weirdo.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, wondering why I ever disliked her.

How can a single person not like Willa Grant?

She’s fucking enchanting.

“Okay?” Her head quirks, and her silky hair tumbles around her shoulders.

I give her a small smile, chuckling at the absurdity of their competition, but too entertained to stop them. “Okay.”

“Good.” She grins at me, moving over to the countertop to hook her Bluetooth up to the speaker.

“Let’s do . . .” She glances over her shoulder at me as her thumb presses down and the first few notes of “Summer of ’69” filters out through the sound system.

I shake my head. But can’t help the smile stretching across my face. She would.

Willa starts off with a terrible moonwalk, before moving into a horrendous sprinkler. She may have been shy playing guitar, but she isn’t shy about dancing. She’s fun. She’s funny. And Luke loves it. He doesn’t even dance. He just jumps around laughing at her, spindly arms and legs flailing wildly.